'Yes, monsieur.''

Charlie had nothing more to say. The voice on the other end of the intercom refused to be drawn. Charlie took hold of the gates and shook them, just to make sure that they were locked, then he walked back to the car and climbed into it. He 37.leaned over towards the glove box and took out a pack of Rol-Aids. The Colonial-style sauce was resisting all his stomach's determined efforts to digest it. That was the trouble with bad food, it always fought back.

'They won't take reservations unless somebody sponsors you,' said Charlie.

'What does that mean?' Martin asked.

'It means they're just about the most exclusive restaurant in the whole continental United States. It may not be easy getting into the Four Seasons, but at least they want your business. This place .. . who knows? How can you run a restaurant right in the middle of nowhere at all, with no advertising, no promotion, not even a signpost to tell you how to get there, and booking by personal recommendation only, in writing, in advance?'

'Maybe they're really good,' said Martin.

'What the h.e.l.l do you mean, "maybe they're really good"!' Charlie retorted. 'The Montpellier is really good! L'Ermitage is really good! There are twenty restaurants in America which are really good! But, darn it, even the best restaurants have to advertise. Even the best restaurants have to let people in!'

Martin said, 'What are you getting so upset about? If they won't let you in, they won't let you in. Forget them. There isn't any point in including a restaurant in M A RIA if n.o.body can get to eat there.'

Charlie took one last look at the implacably closed gates of Le Reposoir, then started up the car and turned back towards Alien's Corners. 'If it's that good, if it's really that good, then I want to eat there, that's all. Even my stomach can only take so much good old country cooking. I could use a revelation. Quite apart from the fact that I'd be fascinated to find out what it is about Le Reposoir that upsets everybody at Alien's Corners so much.'

They drove back through the woods. Another thunderhead had swollen up in front of the sun, and the landscape had suddenly grown chilly and cheerless.

38.Martin said, 'Where are we going to stay tonight? Are we going to drive on to Hartford?'

Charlie shook his head. 'Tonight we're going to stay at Mrs Kemp's boarding house, 313 Naugatuck. I'm not leaving Alien's Corners until I can fix a table for two at Le Reposoir.'

'Dad - we're going to be days behind schedule. What are the people at M A RIA going to say?'

'I can fudge the schedule, don't worry about that. I want to eat at that G.o.dd.a.m.ned private exclusive dining club and that's all there is to it. There must be somebody around here who belongs. That bank president, Haxalt, don't tell me that he's not a member. All I need is one person who's prepared to sponsor my reservation.'

Martin remained silent as they drove back into Alien's Corners. The light was turning to pale purple, and the streetlights had already been switched on. Christopher Prescott and Oliver T. Burack had left the green; but there were lights on the upper floor of the First Litchfield Savings Bank, and a few people were walking past the lower end of the green, on their way back from the supermarket. Birds sang in the maples, that sad intermittent song of early evening.

'I don't know,' said Charlie. 'This reminds me of something. Deja vu, I guess.'

He drove around the green until they reached Naugatuck Avenue. This was one of the oldest streets in Alien's Corners, running directly west to east away from the green. At one time, before the main road had been laid at the lower end of the green, Naugatuck Avenue had been a main highway through to Hartford. English redcoats had marched drumming along here, while the people of Alien's Corners had watched them from their upstairs windows.

Mrs Kemp's boarding house stood at the corner of Naugatuck and Beech; a gaunt saltbox house with flaking weatherboard and windows blinded by grubby lace curtains. It was fronted by a paling fence, half of which was sagging sideways, 39.and a small brick yard in which a single maple grew. Charlie drew up outside it, and eased himself out of the car. 'Are you coming?' he asked Martin.

'Are you sure it's open?' Martin frowned. 'It looks derelict to me.'

'It could use a lick of paint,' Charlie admitted. He opened the wooden gate and walked up the path. 'The last time I was here, the place was immaculate. I gave it a Gold Feather for comfort. Maybe Mrs Kemp has closed up shop.'

Martin followed Charlie cautiously up to the front door. There were two stained-gla.s.s panels in it, one of them badly cracked as if the door had been slammed during a violent argument. In the centre of the door hung a weathered bronze knocker cast in the shape of a snarling animal - something between a wolf and a demon. Charlie nodded towards the knocker and said, 'That's new. Welcoming, isn't it?'

Martin looked up at the loose tiles that had slipped down the porch in a straggling avalanche. 'This can't be open. And I wouldn't want to stay here, even if it is.'

'There's no place else, not in Alien's Corners, anyway.'

Charlie picked up the knocker. It was extraordinarily stiff and heavy, and he didn't much like the way the wolf-demon was snarling into the palm of his hand. He couldn't think why, but the knocker seemed familiar. He could vaguely remember reading about a wolf-like knocker in a book, but he couldn't remember what book, or when.

He banged it, and heard it echo flatly inside the house. He waited, chafing his hands, smiling at Martin from time to time. A stiff breeze had arisen with the setting of the sun, and Charlie felt unnaturally cold.

'n.o.body here,' said Martin, standing with his hands in his pockets, 'Looks like we'll have to go on to Hartford after all.'

They were just about to turn away when they heard somebody coughing inside the house. Charlie banged the knocker again, and after a while footsteps came along the hallway.

40.Through the stained-gla.s.s windows a small pale figure appeared, standing close behind the door. After a moment's pause, the figure reached up and drew back two bolts, and opened up the door on the safety-chain. A woman's face appeared, white and unhealthy-looking, with dark smudges of exhaustion around her eyes. Her hair was untidily clipped with plastic barettes, and she was wearing a soiled blue quilted housecoat. From inside the house there came the vinegary odour of stale air and cooking.

'Mrs Kemp?' asked Charlie.

'What do you want?' the woman demanded.

'It says in the guidebook that this is a boarding house.'

Mrs Kemp stared at him. 'Used to be,' she told him.

'I see. You've given it up.'

'It gave itself up. I tried to keep open but n.o.body wanted to come here any more.'

'Is there anyplace else to stay the night?'

'There's the Wayside Motel outside of Bristol, on the Pequa-buck road.'

'Nowhere in Alien's Corners?"

Mrs Kemp shook her head.

'Well,' said Charlie, 'I guess that fixes it. I might as well introduce myself. My name's Charles McLean, I'm a restaurant inspector for MAR I A. I guess I can take your boarding house out of the book.'

Mrs Kemp's eyes narrowed. 'I remember you. You stayed here three or four years ago.'

'That's right, you've got some memory.'

'I remember you specially because you asked for the Brown Betty. That was always my late husband's favourite, and that was why I kept it on the menu. Maybe two people asked for Brown Betty in seven years, and you were one of them. Well, well. If I'd known you were an inspector, I would have done you better, I'm sure.'

Charlie smiled. 'That's why I never tell anybody. I want to get the ordinary treatment everybody else gets.' He stepped back a little and looked up at the house. 'Pity you've closed up, I liked it here. You ran a good cosy place.'

'Do you want to come inside for some coffee and cake?' asked Mrs Kemp. 'I mean, if you're really pushed for a place to stay, I could air a couple of beds for you. I wouldn't charge, it'd be company.'

Charlie glanced at Martin. It was quite plain from the expression on his face that he didn't relish the idea of spending the night here at all; and the truth was that Charlie didn't exactly fancy it either. But his curiosity about Le Reposoir had been aroused too strongly for him to leave Alien's Corners until he found out more about it. And maybe it would do Martin good to find out who was boss.

'We'd appreciate that,' he said.

Mrs Kemp slid back the safety-chain. 'You'll have to pardon the way I'm dressed. I wasn't expecting company.'

They followed her into the hallway. It was chilly and stale in there, and although the tables had once been highly polished, they were now covered by a fine film of dust. Old hand-coloured engravings of colonial Connecticut hung on the cream-painted walls.

Mrs Kemp brought them coffee in the best parlour, a gloomy room crowded with ma.s.sive sawed-oak furniture of the Teddy Roosevelt era, when bellies and walrus moustaches had been in fashion. She had changed into a plain grey day-dress with a white lace collar, and sprayed herself with floral perfume. The coffee was hot and fresh; the Jubilees stale and chewy. Martin sat in a dark spoonback chair silent and bored.

'I guess you could say that one bad season begets another,' said Mrs Kemp. She kept dry-washing her hands, over and over, and then fiddling with her wedding ring, as if it needed adjusting for size. 'Business was good until late last year; I used to have all of my regulars, Mr King from American Paints, Mr Goldberg the Matzoh Man - well, that's what I 42.always used to call him, the Matzoh Man. And there was good steady family trade through the summer and fall, right past Thanksgiving.'

'What happened?' asked Charlie, setting down his coffee cup. 'They didn't build any new detours.'

Mrs Kemp looked down at her lap for a moment. When she spoke her voice sounded m.u.f.fled and different. 'I don't suppose you remember, it was three or four years since you came here last, but there was a girl who used to help me in the kitchen.'

'I think I remember,' said Charlie.

'Her name was Caroline. She was my niece. My brother and his wife were killed in an auto accident in Ohio when she was seven. I'd been looking after her ever since. When my husband pa.s.sed over she was all I had left.'

Mrs Kemp paused, and then she said, 'You can imagine, we were very close.'

Charlie said nothing, but waited for Mrs Kemp to continue.

'Last November 18, Caroline disappeared,' said Mrs Kemp. 'She went to New Milford to see a friend of hers, but she never arrived. Of course if was hours before I found out that she was missing. I called the police, and the police searched every place they could think of, but no trace of her was ever found. Nothing. It was just as if she had never existed, except for her clothes of course, and her personal belongings. The police said that it happens all the time, young people walking out on their parents or their guardians. They usually end up in California or some place like that, working as dancers or waitresses or - well, you know what kind of a world we live in these days, Mr McLean.'

'Call me Charlie,' said Charlie.

Mrs Kemp nodded, although Charlie wasn't altogether sure if she had heard him or not. She said distractedly, 'I suppose what happened to the boarding house after that was my fault, 43.really. Every salesman who came here, I used to give him a printed sheet with Caroline's picture on it, and ask him to keep a look out for her wherever he went. I suppose I used to carry on about her too much for most people's comfort. The regulars stopped calling by, and then the casual trade fell off. I wanted to keep the business going, I did my best, but I wanted to find Caroline even more, and that kind of affected everything I did.'

'It seems to me that a lot of young people have gone missing from Alien's Corners,' Charlie remarked.

'The sheriff said that it happens a lot in backwater places like this. The kids get bored, that's what he said, but they know that their parents won't let them go, not voluntarily. So they run away, and that's the last that anybody ever sees of them. Not just children of Caroline's age, neither. Some of them are not much more than nine or ten years old. Well, you've seen their pictures on the Knudsen's milk cartons. I used to look at them and wonder how any parent could possibly let their child disappear like that. But it happened to me, too, and all I can tell you about it is that it hurts a good deal, and that you can never get over it.'

They talked for a while about Caroline. Mrs Kemp opened up her rolltop bureau and produced a handful of the printed pictures that she had distributed to her guests. Charlie and Martin dutifully examined them. They showed a pretty fair-haired girl with a snub nose and a wide smile. She could have been a cheerleader or a roller-skating waitress at a drive-in soda fountain. Underneath the picture, a short appeal said, 'MISSING, Caroline Hey ward, 17 years old. Last seen Alien's Corners, CT, 11/18 last year. 5' 4$' tall, slim build. Wearing brown-and-white wool coat, brown wool hat. $500 reward for information.'

'Pretty girl,' said Charlie, offering the flysheet back.

'Keep it,' Mrs Kemp told him. 'You never know, the way you restaurant inspectors travel around, one day you might just find her.'

44.Charlie folded up the flysheet and tucked it into his wallet. 'Would it be too much to ask you to put us up for the night?'

'Of course not,' said Mrs Kemp. 'I'd be glad to. I can give you the big room right at the back, that's the room I always used to give to honeymooners. Well - they weren't all honey-mooners. "Romantic couples", that's what I used to call them.'

'I tried to get to eat at that French place,' said Charlie.

Mrs Kemp lifted her head. In the lamplight, the dark circles under her eyes looked like bruises. 'What French place?' she inquired sharply. So sharply that she must have known exactly what he was talking about.

'Le Reposoir, up on Qua.s.sapaug,' said Charlie. 'They seem to have quite a reputation around here.'

'They're not the kind of people you'd choose to have as neighbours, if you had a choice,' Mrs Kemp replied.

'Oh?' said Charlie.

'They keep themselves to themselves, that's all. They live here, but you couldn't say they're part of the local community. They seem to do whatever they like, though. They built a whole new wing on that house of theirs, up on Qua.s.sapaug, and I never heard a whisper about zoning laws. I talked to Mr Haxalt about it - Mr Haxalt's the chairman of our community a.s.sociation -'

'Yes,' Charlie told her. 'I had the pleasure of meeting Mr Haxalt this afternoon. I parked my car in his sacred parking place.'

'Well, then, you'll know what he's like,' said Mrs Kemp. 'He's an expert at giving folks the brush-off. And that's what he did when I tried to talk to him about Le Reposoir. "Don't you worry, Mrs Kemp, those people are here to bring more trade into Alien's Corners." But did they bring in more trade? They certainly didn't. I can tell you - lots of people come and go, up on Qua.s.sapaug Road - lots of wealthy people, too, in limousines - but none of them stop at Alien's Corners, and 45.even if they did, you can't imagine that they'd be the kind of people to buy cream or corn-dollies or home-cured bacon. Let me tell you, Mr McLean -'

'Charlie, please.'

'- well, let me tell you, Charlie, that place is a curse on Alien's Corners. It takes everything and gives nothing. There's people around here who won't go near it for money in the bank. And don't ask me why, because I don't know. But it has the feeling about it. Alien's Corners has never been the same since that place opened, and until it closes down it never will. This used to be a happy town, but you look at it now. Sad and lost and anxious, that's what it is. Maybe Le Reposoir isn't to blame. Who can say? It could be the way that life is going everywhere, the recession and all. But I believe that place is a curse on Alien's Corners, and that the sun won't shine here until it's gone.'

Martin said, 'It's only a restaurant.'

Charlie turned around in his chair and looked at him. Martin repeated, 'It's only a restaurant, that's all.'

'Oh, yes,' said Charlie. 'And since when have you been the expert?'

Martin pouted, but didn't answer. Mrs Kemp glanced from Charlie to Martin and smiled, as if she were trying to make peace between them.

Charlie said, with a frankness that was unprecedented for him, 'Martin and I haven't seen too much of each other -well, not for years. His mother and I were divorced. You have to make allowances on both sides I guess.'

Martin looked at his father with an expression that was a mixture of embarra.s.sment and respect. / wish you hadn't said that. Dad, and anyway, who was it who never came home? But he held his tongue. There are some feelings which are mutually understood between father and son, but which are better left unspoken.

'You must know Mr Musette,' Charlie said to Mrs Kemp.

46.'I've seen him, yes, but no more than twice.'

'And?'

'He's charming. Very foreign, of course. He likes to be called Monsieur Musette. A lot of the ladies around here think he's tray charmong. Only from a distance, of course. He keeps himself to himself. And then of course there's Mrs Musette - Madame Musette - although I've never seen her.'

Charlie waved away the offer of another Jubilee. 'Tell me something,' he asked Mrs Kemp. 'What is it about Le Reposoir that can affect a whole community?'

Mrs Kemp said, 'What can I tell you? Maybe it's nothing at all. Your son's quite right. It's only a restaurant. Why should anybody be frightened of a restaurant?'

The atmosphere in the parlour was very strange. Charlie felt as if he had been asked to complete a sentence to which there was no logical conclusion - such as, 'I like the shifting of the tides because ..." He couldn't rid himself of the suspicion that Martin had been talking to somebody back in the parking lot of the Iron Kettle, no matter how much Martin denied it, and he also felt that his conversation with this unknown somebody had been connected with Le Reposoir. After all, where had Martin found that visiting card from Le Reposoir? And why had he denied seeing that pale-faced child in the garden?

Mrs Kemp showed them up to their room. It was stuffy, high-ceilinged, with maps of damp disfiguring the plaster above their heads. The walls had been papered with huge green flowers that were supposed to be roses but looked more like efflorescing mould. In one corner loomed a gigantic wardrobe, with blistered veneer and mottled mirrors. The bed was enormous, an aircraft carrier of a bed, built of green-painted iron with bra.s.s decorations in the shape of seash.e.l.ls. Martin tried to bounce on it, and complained, 'Jesus, this mattress is as hard as a rock.'

'Hard beds are good for your posture,' said Charlie. 'And don't profane.'

47.'Do we really have to stay here?'

'Maybe you can answer that,' Charlie replied, taking off his coat and hanging it up inside the cavernous depths of the wardrobe. There were five wire hangers in there, and a dried up clove and orange pomander that looked like a shrunken head.

'I don't know what you mean,' said Martin. He went over to the opposite side of the room and stuck his head inside the carved wooden fireplace. 'Halloo - halloo - any skeletons up there?'

Charlie watched him in the wardrobe mirror. 'You still haven't told me the truth about what happened at the Iron Kettle.' He tried not to sound too petulant.

'Dad,' said Martin. 'Nothing happened.'

Martin turned away from the fireplace, and as he did so Charlie saw in the mirror that his face had peculiarly altered. It seemed to have stretched out, so that it was broad and distorted, and his eyes had the same blind look as the eyes of a dead fox he had once found lying by the road. Charlie jerked in shock, and turned around, but Martin appeared quite normal when he confronted him face-to-face. He looked back at the mirror. It must have been the mottling, and the dirt. He remembered how old he had looked himself, in the mens room mirror at the Iron Kettle.

'Do you want to go down to the car and get the bag?' Charlie asked Martin.

Martin said, 'Okay,' but on the way out of the door he hesitated. 'Do you really not believe me?' he asked.

Charlie said, 'I believe you.'